


Warmth

by HetfieldsHair



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: During Canon, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love, POV Second Person, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29062764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HetfieldsHair/pseuds/HetfieldsHair
Summary: His body, against yours. So close, so safe, the bite of the cold, the closeness of death, did not matter. Even in this fleeting moment, only to last a second, it meant more than the entire world. More than the remainders of humanity. More than the world beyond the walls. More than you could have ever imagined, no matter how many times you prayed for it to happen.It would end soon. Maybe one day, he could tell you that he loved you, too. But until then, this was enough.
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Warmth

His body, against yours. So close, so safe, the bite of the cold, the closeness of death, did not matter. Even in this fleeting moment, only to last a second, it meant more than the entire world. More than the remainders of humanity. More than the world beyond the walls. More than you could have ever imagined, no matter how many times you prayed for it to happen.

His touch, so firm, so certain, the hurt, the words, did not matter. Regardless of all he had said to you before, regardless of his every attempt to break away, regardless of how far you drove him only to chase in turn, you felt joy. To make up for a childhood lost, to make up for those five years, time that would never come back, yet, now, it did not matter.

It made you happier than anything. Beyond the scarf, so soft, so beautiful, reminding you of what good was left in this world; beyond the seas, the frigid winter air nipping softly at your skin; to only feel him, for the first time in so long; to feel okay.

You knew that peace was far from now. With knowledge came the burden of duty— the burden to know that humanity, indeed, lived beyond your walls, and that with it, the battle had only just begun. You all should have been scared, should have been beaten, crushed by such a realization so soon after victory.

And yet, you were not. As their numbers dwindled, casualties reduced. As your land was reclaimed, casualties were supplanted. And as the world, or at least, your world, began to heal, the lives of those that had given everything, even themselves, to ensure this future, were finally vindicated.

Children, the very first to be born in a free land, danced in the grass. New soldiers, filled with hope, filled with passion, made merry in the halls. And your friends, the few that were left, the few that had somehow managed to survive, splashed in the waves, laughing, playing, for a brief moment, spared the horrors of war.

But tranquility did not come so easy to all. And as you gazed onward to the future of mankind, the look in his eyes was your own. The color, gone, the hope, absent, the will and the resolve and the determination bleeding away, you understood the price of that war. More than any death could ever convey, he was no longer there.

To drive them out. To kill every last one of them. Ideals that had driven a mind for half a decade— and now, ideals that had failed to stand the test of time. Shattered by the secrets of the past, the knowledge of the future, a broken man stood, held together only by those around him.

But he came to you. And he apologized to you. And he embraced you. And he held you. And somehow, in some selfish way, it was the only thing that mattered. His arms around you; his chest to yours; his head right beside, and his hips meeting. One and the same, you took away the weight each other had to bear, and for just a minute, rested.

Hot tears poured down your face, down your cheeks, into the cloth of thick clothes made to resist the later seasons. Tears that you swore had long-since dried up, but tears, unmistakably, and with them, cries. Perhaps they were of sadness; perhaps they were of joy; but for once, he was not the one who had to shed them, and for that, it was enough.

How long you had waited merely to feel his touch. All around, encircling you, you moved into it, and he did not push you away. Braver, you clung back, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, hiding away in the crook of his neck, breathing out the last shudders of your emotion, in red-eyed sighs.

Not a day went by where you failed to think of him, failed to imagine this very moment, failed to fantasize about the day of the week of the month it would finally happen; when the only thing in this world you truly loved would love you back, the last trace of family you had, that which gave you purpose, that which gave you reason, that which drove you to fight when there was nothing to fight for.

Love you had to suppress, for so, so long. Love that welled up like blood at a wound, that poured out uncontrollably, without a tourniquet, like the quiet sobs that came long after the dampness had dried to your face, and left your pale visage stained pink.

Lips pressed softly to your forehead, chaste and dry. When had he gotten so tall? When had you grown up? When did you ever have time to wonder, when it felt so good? A hold, a hug, made you so happy, so warm, but a kiss, a kiss made you feel like you had never felt before, so hot, you felt a smile grace your features.

You laughed. He had to have noticed— such a strange thing to hear from you, even his gaze, now lifeless, now icy, had bewilderment behind it, to see your wet face, mouth bent with pure bliss, just like that day in the fields, only, this time, there was no reaper standing just over you.

Though he still did not let you go. As if cherishing the last thing he had, he clutched you tighter, and you, him. 

So warm. So hot. Even if it meant burning up, you wanted to be closer. The heat touched your cheeks, spreading over the bridge of your nose, as you stood on your toes, high enough to reach him.

But you felt your neck bend before you could. So close, so near, but neither close nor near enough. A hand pushed into your short, choppy, black hair, against your scalp, gentle, but firm, and anchored you back to reality. You wanted to complain; you wanted to object; but to what? The questions, the answers escaped you— and you found yourself complacent enough merely to be worth holding.

It would end soon. Maybe one day, he could tell you that he loved you, too. But until then, this was enough. The scarf around your neck, the man before you, the house, almost like home:

The warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> Might write up a sequel/continuation/more Mikasa/Eren if the fans want it. In a real big AoT mood lately.


End file.
